As the brush hit the paper, and the vision of my ideal creation took root in my mind, I began to ponder on my precarious situation caused by the lack of funds and even my own mental failings when it comes to handling my affairs. First, it had been that damn landlord who kicked me out of my residence; he banged down the door and yelled at me due to my not paying the rent for about three months. Yet, how could I be blamed? My paintings had been selling for pennies on the dollar, and I could barely afford to eat, let alone get around this shantytown to even present them in the first place. I explained to him my financial situation, and yet he simply kicked me out without any consideration for how I felt. That had been the first blow to my ego.
The second came when I had been visited by the police on a warrant of petty theft, as I had been forced to steal a paintbrush and pastel set from the local artisan shop, for I had nothing to work with, or rather the tools I had possessed at the time were quickly deteriorating to the point of nonexistence; I expected the bloody things to outright disintegrate in front of me. They found the set, took me down to the station, and began to prosecute me for the crime. When we arrived, I explained to them that my profession necessitated these materials, and that the vendor would not allow me to rent them on a monthly payment schedule. They didn’t listen, and sent me out on bail, which was to be paid with blood gotten out of a stone, apparently.
The third came, when, as I had been out on bail and with nothing but dust in my pockets, I noticed an exhibit being held for another painter; one of whom I considered to be my rival. The masses had been gobbling it up with their eyes, and yet the painting itself had been so simplistic and uninspired that I nearly burst into laughter when I saw it. They cheered his name, and many wealthy individuals offered to buy the piece at shockingly absurd prices. At that moment, I began to stomp the ground and curse obscenities at that man, damning him for ruining the integrity of my profession with his amateurish work. He didn’t care though. After all, he would be living it with the local whores and sipping on the finest of wine, whilst I would be figuring out where I would rest my head for the night. However, part of me knew that I simply could not let this go.
In a fit of rage, I took off one of my shoes and hurled it directly at him. However, it missed him, and instead hit one of the paintings on display. As I rushed over to assess the extent of what I had done, a shocking conclusion presented itself to me: it had been my painting that I had knocked over, and the damage done by the fall was so immense that it rendered it completely battered and tarnished. Such was also the state of my reputation when a kind police officer came to take me away in handcuffs soon afterwards.
